


Rearranging the Disalign

by mona1347, poisontaster



Series: Every Broken Thing [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Requited Love, Sibling Incest, Undecided Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-22
Updated: 2006-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 08:07:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5489831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mona1347/pseuds/mona1347, https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I can choose you.  You can choose me."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rearranging the Disalign

**Author's Note:**

> _You want somebody for a very long time. And then you have them. And they love you. And they make love to you. But it's not enough. This is the truth about sex._  
>  \--"The House of Yes", by Wendy MacLeod

Sam’s throat aches and not for the obvious reasons.

He listens as the water in the bathroom rumbles on. The shower is part of the ritual too and Sam knows how much Dean relies on ritual. Hell, how much they both do, imposing an illusion of order over a life otherwise completely chaotic. He tries very hard not to picture Dean soaping up to scrub away all trace of Sam yet again, dry pain sinking deeper, hurting more.

For his part, Sam’s cold and sticky and so are the sheets. Maybe there’s a metaphor there, but if there is, he’s too tired to parse it out. Mechanically, he gets up and strips the bed and then himself, all to a mental chorus of _Dean wants me_.

It had seemed like so much to hope for.

Turns out that was the simple part.

***

This isn’t supposed to be happening.

Not like this. It was supposed to be…like it was supposed to be. After the succubus… Dean’s hands clench on the bar of soap and crack the thin bar in half. It was supposed to be simple. It should have been simple, because it’s Sam. But on the other hand, it’s _Sam_ , and so he tries to pretend. That it isn't what it is. Because it’s Sam.

Hell.

This is just a spell, just that old fucking glamour twisted and changed. This is something _done_ to Sam, because of _her_ , because of Dean. Because Dean fucked up and didn't take care of Sam properly.

Dean knows he fucked up. He let his need get in the way, crossed the line and now he’s got to deal with that like he’s got to deal with every other fucking thing; you take care of it, you fix the fucking problem and you keep your goddamn mouth shut.

Except he’s not fixing Sam. He’s fucking Sam. And really, he’s not sure he’s not just making it worse, too weak to figure out what the right thing really is. It’s not like he can ask Dad, even if Dad was taking calls.

_I want this. I want you._

But it’s a lie. Sam doesn’t want him, Sam _left_ him and Dean’s the selfish bastard who dragged him back and took him to his bed.

***

And he’s not sure whose head he wants to bang against the wall more, his own or Dean’s. And the more he thinks about it, the angrier he gets.

Because Dean can’t ever let himself bend, just a little bit.

Because Sam’s never been less than clear about what he wants from Dean, up to and including Dean himself.

Because Dean _still_ doesn’t take him seriously. He doesn’t listen. He doesn’t pay attention.

Because this could fucking _work_ , if Dean would just let it.

***

Sam’s getting better at sneaking up on him.

That, or Dean’s just too fucked in the head to notice, and that’s an altogether new kind of horrifying. In any case, Dean doesn’t notice Sam’s there until the curtain slides back rustily on the rod and suddenly, Sam’s _there_ , fitting his lanky form around Dean’s and sliding his arms around Dean’s waist.

The shower’s hot, hot as he can stand it and not burn, but somehow, Sam’s skin still feels warmer.

_No…_

"You know…" Sam’s head rests on Dean’s shoulder, bringing the sweaty sex smell of him in over the shower’s rain and his mouth is up against Dean’s ear, voice soft and growling at the same time. "Seems to me that for a man so afraid _I’ll_ leave, you’re doing an awful lot of running yourself."

_Don’t. Just…don’t._

"Sam." He puts his hands over Sam’s where they lock just below his navel and hunches his shoulder to twist away. Sam lets him get so far and then pins him to the tile. It’s _freezing_ and Dean flinches, which only puts him in closer contact with Sam. And Sam’s stupid yammering mouth is covering his, demanding, intruding, and Sam’s stupid long hair is dripping in Dean’s eyes, stinging and Dean’s _shaking_ , just shaking like he’s falling apart and he thinks, _yes, that’s it exactly._

So instead, Dean tips his head back and puts on a smirk. "Damn, Sam. I had no idea you were into dick so bad—though who can blame you? Still, there are limits to even _my_ remarkable stamina…"

"You’re a fucking idiot, you know that?" Sam’s fingers bite into Dean’s shoulders.

" _I’m_ an idiot?" Dean scoffs, but it sounds weak even to him. He’s not ready for this, not ready to be _on_ again. It hurts, chafing over incomplete wounds. But Dean’s nothing if he can’t fight through a little pain. "Dude, you’re the one practically climbing up my back ‘cause you can’t get enough."

Sam flips wet hair out of his eyes, spraying Dean. Dean doesn’t know why he bothers; it just flops back down anyway. "How long’ve I known you? You think I don’t know your bullshit when I smell it?"

Dean opens his mouth to say something and Sam pushes him back again. Damn, he forgets sometimes how strong Sam is. He’s not a kid any more. "I call bullshit, Dean," Sam repeats, hands coming up to cup Dean’s face.

He doesn’t expect it, the…gentleness of the gesture after the previous manhandling, any more than he expects the way Sam bends and presses his forehead to Dean’s. He wishes Sam wouldn’t do this.

***

"Sam…"

"I left because of you," Sam says and Dean _jerks_ , breath catching, eyes shuttering Sam out. The sneer flakes off Dean’s face like it never existed and the sun lines at the corners of his eyes clench with his jaw.

_Fuck. No. No._

Sam feels a little hot/cold flutter go through his groin and chest at the same time. "Not _just_ you, Dean; I had to get away. Dad… Whatever. It doesn't matter. But… I had you and I didn’t have you and I couldn’t… I couldn’t make you want me. Not enough."

Sam closes his eyes and presses his forehead harder against Dean’s until the bones grate. For all Dean’s insistence that Sam talks too much, this is something he’s never said. Not to anyone, not even himself. It breaks open all those old scabs and scars, turns his fingers to ice and makes his legs feel wobbly and unreliable.

Then he opens his eyes, because if he’s doing this—really doing this—it shouldn’t be blindly. "So here’s how it is. I loved… _love_ Jess. And we can’t change that and I don’t want to. It's two different things. And you’re a complete ass and totally bad with people and you don’t listen to a word I say, and…no one could possibly want you as much as I want you. Like I’ve always wanted you. So we’re not going to keep doing this," Sam tells him, fingers tightening as Dean tries to avert his face.

"And here I thought ‘doing this’ was exactly what you wanted," Dean says, but it’s half hearted and not nearly as cruel.

"You know what I want," Sam murmurs, gliding the tip of his nose along Dean’s face. Dean’s eyes close.

Dean mutters something that Sam can’t hear, even at this close range.

"What?"

Another one of those full-body tremors that Dean would totally deny if Sam asked and Dean’s eyes open. His pupils are enormous, blown out and dark. " _You_ don’t know what you want," Dean says. Sam can tell they’re different words than before, but the way Dean’s voice shatters over them has the ring of something true. "You never did. That damn spell…" Dean’s hand moves—towards Sam, away—and then finally falls back to his side.

Despite the heat of the water beating and beading over their skin, Sam feels a frisson of cold go through him when Dean says that, the slithering stir of half-forgotten memories and old scars of teeth. He knows Dean…

Well. That’s always the question, isn’t it? For someone so single-minded and pared down in his pursuits, there are never easy, _simple_ answers with Dean, no straight lines of sight. So he’s geared himself up to fight on the _I won’t leave you_ front only to find it's suddenly a different battle and a new layer altogether.

"What…?" He starts to ask. And then it comes back, the way everything about them eventually does. "Oh God," he says, and when he does, Dean’s eyes shift, half-hidden behind almost colorless lashes. Despite everything and everything at stake here, Sam feels a hot spurt of pleasure; that he’s figured it out. That he’s figured _Dean_ out. "Dean."

***

"Is that what this is?" He hates how… _amused_ Sam sounds, how smug. Little brothers shouldn’t ever sound like that, especially when rubbing their wet belly and cock all over yours.

"Sam—" His voice comes out stronger this time, edged in irritation, but Sam just gives him that college-boy shake of the head and the oh-so-sincere ‘you poor thing’ look.

"It’s not a spell, okay? I know you think that because I thought it too, but it’s not _her_ , Dean; it’s not her, it’s just us. Just me and you."

"You don’t know that." Dean’s hands clench and he looks down, though he lets Sam continue to hold him there. The point is, he can get out of this at any moment. When he wants to. If he wants to. _(When/if, when/if…)_

 _"Dean."_ Sam’s hands fall to Dean’s shoulders long enough to shake him then return to cup his face again. "I _do_ know. You think I didn’t fight with this too? You think I didn’t check?"

That makes Dean’s eyes dart up and get caught in the utter seriousness of Sam’s gaze. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised; of _course_ Sam wants free of this…sickness. This perversion. But then Sam’s kissing him again, sloppy open-mouthed devourings that make Dean want to close his eyes and fall into Sam and it’s all fucked up and confused again.

Except…no. Because if there is no spell, no lingering residue, then that makes everything all that much worse because that means _Dean’s_ responsible for this, for kinking Sam so badly and purely in the name of his own desire.

He knew he’d crossed _that_ line with Sam on that night, the night that _she…_ That damned succubus. But even after wanking himself nearly raw in the shower afterwards…he’d still gotten hard for (with) Sammy; for that chubby twelve year old thrusting and rubbing in the sheets and biting his lip to keep Dad from waking. He’d still run his hands ceaselessly over that smooth sweat-damp skin—shoulders, arms, spine, _ass_ —feeling drugged and desperate with the sheer _sensation_ of it, the intensity. _Sam_. Sam hadn’t noticed, caught in the throes of his own orgasm, but Dean had come _hard_ , without even touching himself.

And now…if it wasn’t _her_ , that bitch…then it had to be him, sick fucker.

Fuck.

Dean brings his hands up, pushes between them.

Sam’s eyes are closed but his grip tightens, fingers snaking around to the nape of Dean’s neck, trying to hold. He protests, "No. I want…"

Dean exerts more pressure and shoves Sam back, harder than he means to. Sam’s feet slide on the porcelain and Dean has to grab him—forearm, shoulder—to keep him from falling over the tub’s lip. Sam’s eyes spring open, shocked and startled. "What the fuck, dude?"

"You keep saying that, but it’s not about what you _want_ , Sam," Dean hisses, feeling sick and turned on and headachy. "It’s not supposed to be about _want_ , it’s what you _need_. You were so young and you didn’t... I _had_ to. I couldn’t just…leave you like that, with what she did…"

Sam is very still. Then, quietly: "What are you talking about?"

His hand is curled around Dean's forearm, refusing to let go and he tries to come closer again. Dean keeps his arm stiff, holding Sam off. Even this small touch distracts him. "The reason I…the reason I _do_ this, the reason I can sleep at night is because you _need_ this; because that sick twisted demon bitch did something to you—to _us_ —and it's not your fault or my fault or dad's fault…but now I…this…"

All these words. All these goddamn words, pouring out of him like blood.  
"It's not about _us_ , Sammy. It can't be just about us because there's fucked up and then there's that. This is something we just _do_ , something that we have to do to keep the dark magic at bay, not because of anything like _want_."

"So there is want?"

Dean curses under his breath and looks away.

"Why can’t you just _say_ it?"

And that’s just such a stupid question Dean doesn’t even know how to quantify it.

"Dean." Sam is very close again, slick/smooth/wet. "This _is_ something we do to keep the dark magic at bay. But _because_ we want it, not despite it."

"No," Dean says. He should have never let it get this far. He should have _never_ let it get this fucking far. "That… It’s not like that. That’s not… _you_ saying that."  
  
But he wavers and that's all it takes; Sam is against him, pushing _him_ , grinding his hips against him until he's shuddery and weak and starting to harden again.

Sam _whispers_ , a thin and taut wire of sound, snugging around Dean's throat: "Oh please. That's total crap and you know it. Years, Dean. You never thought to look it up? All this time? I mean, I know how you feel about having to crack a goddamn book now and again but you never thought to…oh, I don't know… _ask_ someone?"

Sam nuzzles and nips Dean’s skin, spiteful, distracting. "Go to someone? A witch or _houngan_ , to get this supposed spell lifted? And how did you rationalize that? Because it isn't dangerous, isn't something that can weaken you, take its toll on your hunting. That's just _bullshit_ , Dean, a total bullshit excuse, because you knew. You _knew_. You just want to pretend you don’t."

 _No_ , Dean thinks. _Yes._

_I don’t know._

It isn't a chronic illness, it isn't an open wound. It's a deep scar that changed the topography of their skin forever. And like the rest of his scars, it fucking _aches._

"Stop." It comes out soft, rasping and Sam ignores him anyway, still whispering, murmuring, cajoling, writhing, sliding, but just forcing the words out from his throat helps. "Stop."

"No." Sam licks Dean’s throat, a scalding line of wetness that becomes a scrape, a nibble, a bite. Sam chews, bites, _marks_ , as if it’s necessary. As if Dean hasn’t always been his.

But it’s not enough.

Dean takes a deep breath. Then he grabs and brings Sam's head up from his neck to his mouth, hot, wet and open. Sam groans against his lips, clutching, clinging, promising everything and nothing with the lies told by skin. It hurts, oh _fuck_ it hurts. Because Dean _does_ want and Sam just keeps breaking down every wall he’s put between himself and that want and even his dick lies to him with its siren song of _do it. do it, DO IT, are you fucking **gelded**?!_ and Dean _can’t_ , he just _can’t_.

Sam’s hands leave Dean’s shoulders to tangle in his hair and clutch his hip respectively and Dean eases him around, nudging him towards the back of the shower. _This is Sam’s problem,_ Dean thinks viciously. _He’s too easily lulled._

Dean’s so hard all his bones ache with it and Sam keeps alternately thrusting his erection against Dean’s or reaching for him. Dean deflects him with an elbow until he’s got Sam backed against the tile. "Yeah," Sam breathes. His eyes are closed and his hands are loose around Dean’s forearms. "Yeah, c’mon, Dean, c’mon…"

It’s easy now; for Dean to slide away; to step out of the tub altogether, the milky curtain trailing on his skin like ghosts.

Fuck this noise.

***

Sam sags a little against the tile, stunned and stupid with the speed with which it all happened. One minute Dean is kissing him... He shivers, still overwhelmed by the sheer force of _feeling_ behind the pressure of Dean’s mouth; hunger and _want_ \--fucking God, so _much_ want--with just that chili pepper bite of hate behind it; a huge and climbing tsunami that tells him everything and fixes nothing and now here he is and Dean’s gone again. Running again.

He just… He just…

He didn’t know.

 _Fuck, Dean,_ he thinks, through anger and despair and a whole lot of confusion—not to mention the insistent throb of his cock— _why do you have to make this so hard?_

 _Because that’s what Dean **does** , stupid,_ he thinks, and it’s such a simple and fundamental truth that there’s nothing he can say to it.

But he’ll be damned if he’ll accept it.

***

He’s fucking dripping wet and hard as steel and shaking like a little bitch but fuck it, he doesn’t _care_ … Dean snatches up his discarded jeans, dimly aware that for all his frantic need to escape, he won’t get far bare-assed. He gets as far as shaking them out once—screw boxers—and getting about half a leg in, when Sam hits him low and from the side, sneaky underhanded _fucker_.

He’s off balance; Dean goes sprawling and hits the edge of the nearer bed sidelong. He scrabbles to get a foot under him, tangled in denim and the rest of the clothes he just went crashing through and Sam just _digs_ and _pushes_ until he’s got Dean on the mattress under him spread-eagled and pinned.

"Get the fuck off me," Dean swears, trying to kick his legs free, trying to muscle his wrists out from Sam’s iron hard grip. "Get _off_ , dammit!"

"Dean!" Sam’s hair is dripping in his face again; stupid punk needs a haircut. "Goddamn it, you are going to _listen_ to me…"

"What do you think I’ve _been_ doing?" Dean demands. "I heard everything you said. _You_ want this. _You_ want me. But let’s be clear here, Sam--what is it you really want, huh? Just my ass? Is that what this is about? Because you can fuck me or suck me, or I can do you and it doesn’t make a damn bit of difference! Fucking doesn’t _fix_ it!"

Sam blanches and Dean’d be lying if he didn’t feel some satisfaction in that, especially when Sam won’t fucking _get off_ of him, their skins still rubbing slickly over each other in a way that has everything and nothing to do with the anger crackling between them.

"You act like I can’t pick you without picking the job," Sam says roughly, his mouth taut. Finally, _finally_ he’s as pissed as Dean. "That you can’t have me because I want another life…but it’s not the same thing. I can choose you. You can choose me."

Dean makes a scornful noise in his throat, ignoring the ache as Sam just confirms yet again that this is just a way station for him; a means to an end. That _Dean_ is just a means to an end.  
  
" _Fuck_. You stupid bastard!" Sam shifts for better leverage, bony knee cutting into the muscle of Dean’s thigh. And still Dean’s just hard, wanting to give in and too fucking stubborn to do so. Because Sam’s _had_ him; Sam’s had him all this time and he could give a fuck. "Do you remember what you said? About Max? That I was never going to be like him. Because I have you. But Dean…dammit! You have me too. You _have_ me."

_Wait…what?_

"So I’m yours, okay? I'm yours. But that means you're mine too, Dean. I want... I _do_ want to fuck you and suck you and I want..." Sam falters, hectic crazy blush in his face like fever, but he presses on almost right away, "I want you in me, coming in me, making me come apart... But not just that. I want you. I want us. You and me until the wheels fall off." Sam bends his head and tongues/bites/sucks where Dean's shoulder meets his neck, making Dean's hip jitter and thrust up against Sam's. "Close your eyes."

Dean stares at Sam. He can’t help it. He wants to ask Sam to say it again. He’s afraid to ask Sam to say it again.

"Dean." Sam’s voice splinters, rough edged and thick. "Close your eyes. Please."

Dean does, though not without misgivings. Sam’s fingertips brush over his eyelids, light and tickling, keep going until they scratch across stubble, cheek to neck and then away. Contact again at his collarbone, first a fingertip and then Sam’s lips. All over his body…Sam’s hands, Sam’s mouth, Sam’s _skin_ ; touching him, spreading him out, exploring, tasting. He knows he should get up, away; he feels himself softening, wanting, needing. Sam’s fingertips spell out the constellation of rock salt scars with a gentleness that belies the violence with which they went in and he’s so open he can _feel_ Sam’s apology, bleeding and soaking into him like a rising tide that floods and erodes all his barriers to useless sand. He should get up. He should go.

He doesn’t move, breathing too fast and too hard. He is, he understands, waiting. As he always does. He’s just never sure for what.

"Dean," Sam says and something in the note of his voice makes Dean open his eyes again. Sam’s face is right over his, the soft **V** of concentration between his brows. Sam’s thumb traces across his eyebrow, his temple and Dean fights the trembling shaking up through his bones. "I’m sorry. I…" Sam’s lips quirk. "I’m not going to fuck you and then leave, okay? I won’t. And we’ll just…we’ll figure out the rest later."

He… Dean can’t think, stunned that Sam would… That Sam said… He can’t help it; something brittle and wavering in him breaks, leaving only glittering shards and—well, not _belief_ so much as the desire to believe, fragile as a soap bubble.

"Okay." Dean's mouth is spitless. When he swallows, there's a click. He tries again, heart thumping harder and more erratically than when he fried it. "Okay."

Sam's whole face lights and he comes down to kiss Dean again, sucking and biting and licking until Dean's not sure anymore what his objections were or should be. Sam’s hands are harder now, rougher with urgency. Dean feels it too, prickling and fierce. They’ve made their deal, fucked up and bitterly negotiated as they always are. The only thing left is the consummation and that’s always due in flesh and blood.

 _We’re really going to do this,_ Dean thinks, as he cants his hips and shifts onto his right thigh so he can turn over, get his knees under him. His stomach quivers again, uneasy and excited by turns.

"No." Sam pushes down against Dean’s hip, pushes him flat again. His thumb strokes the harshness away. "Not like that. Like this. Where I can see you. I want to see you." Sam lunges for the edge of the bed and rummages through Dean’s duffel before coming back with the little bottle of lube. Sam cracks it open and lets oil drip generously into his cupped palm.

"You see me all the time," Dean growls. It’s supposed to come out as a wisecrack, but instead it’s only hoarse and kind of soft like half his voice abandoned him. Or maybe he’s just distracted by the tickling, teasing path of Sam’s fingers as they feather over his tense and trembling thigh and on between his legs. When Sam brushes over his anus, his hips jerk like they’re on a string and it feels like every remaining drop of blood in his body goes straight to his dick.

"Not like this I don’t," Sam says before his teeth sink into Dean's shoulder. At the same time his circling finger sinks deep inside. Dean arches up, unable to breathe, to _think_ , caught between dizzying and conflicting signal waves of pleasure and pain. "Mine," Sam growls and if not for his fingers caught hard around the base of Dean's cock, he would have brought Dean off right then.

"Sam--" he says, unsteady and teetering.

Sam breathes against Dean’s sticky collarbone, sliding his finger deeper and harder into Dean. It hurts and it doesn’t, in a way that makes him think he wants more. "Say it again," Sam whispers, barely loud enough to be heard. "Say my name."

***

_Sam, Sam, Sam…_

Dean’s whispering his name over and over as Sam slips his finger—and then fingers—in and out of him; a chant, a prayer, hoarse and stripped like he’s lost control of his voice. It’s beautiful. Dean is beautiful, writhing, his eyes closed and mouth open. He’s almost unbelievably tight and Sam can read in that and in the response of Dean’s body to the invasion of touch that—whatever else Dean did in the time that separated them—he hasn’t done this. Not with anyone.

That realization makes Sam close his eyes and bury his face against Dean’s searing skin, pounding in his temples and his groin until he has to repeat the Incantation of Banishment in Greek, Latin, Hebrew and Aramaic before he can be sure he’s not going to come all over himself before they get to the best part.

"I’m going to fuck you," he whispers into Dean’s skin, barely able to believe it. He feels giddy and delirious and this had better _not_ be only a dream or he will seriously kill something with his brain. For once, he’s not even scared. "Dean…oh, I’m going to fuck you so hard…"

"Sam?" Dean's voice breaks on a note Sam's never heard in it before and he reaches out and grabs Sam's wrist, hard enough to hurt. His pupils are blown, scared, wide black holes only held back by a sliver thin ring of green and his freckles look like ink.

"Shhh..." Sam bends and puts his mouth over Dean's, soft and open, tongue moving, eyes closed, delirious, delighted that he can do this, that _they_ can. "It's okay," he murmurs as Dean arches up into him again. He puts Dean’s legs up, over his shoulders, slides his fingers out and guides his cock into their place, Dean still braceleting his wrist, if less urgently. "I know what you need."

Dean gasps as Sam slides into him, stretching, filling, slow and careful. The hand not holding Sam's wrist stutters over Sam's shoulder, pectoral, before closing on his bicep. "Wait..." Dean breathes, " _fuck_ , wait..."

Sam brushes his face over Dean's, less sexual than his own need for contact, as much contact as his screaming body can stand. "Don't you think we waited long enough?" he asks, slipping deeper as Dean gradually, grudgingly opens to him. He turns his wrist, slipping out of Dean's death hold and instead twines his fingers through his brother's. Dean grips hard and Sam matches the pressure. "Oh God, didn't we wait long enough?" He falls into Dean's mouth, wanting it, needing it as much as he needs the tightness of Dean enclosing him. As much as he needs Dean.

Dean's hand slides from Sam's bicep into his hair; Sam turns his face a little to brush the palm with his lips, slipping out of Dean nearly all the way and then sinking slow and deep again, further this time. Dean’s breath catches and stops, his whole body bowing backwards and up into Sam. He feels Dean relaxing, glazing, really and finally letting Sam all the way in and he remembers: Dean says things with his body; always has always will.

What he's telling Sam is _yes, yes, yes._

**Author's Note:**

> Gratitude to inlovewithnight and alizarin_nyc for beta services.


End file.
